Page 11 of Bound to Her Highland Lord
“I did you a favor, you know.”
His words were ice over her fiery skin. Adrenaline had already poured into her veins, readying her for a fight he seemed to have no interest in engaging.
“I beg yer finest pardon,my lord.” The polite title was acid on her tongue. “Ye did nothing but barter me for yer services as though I am wee more than a heifer. Ye traded my life for the lives of yer men, like I am a currency instead of a person. Ye call that a favor? Am I supposed to now fall flat on my face to show ye my undying gratitude?”
Despite her mother’s warning, she couldn’t seem to keep her mouth shut. There was something about this man, the set of his shoulders and the cocked brow on his devastatingly handsome face that shouted his entitlement. It made her stomach twist and her hackles rise.
He stepped closer to the bars that separated them, dropping his voice another octave, making his words impossibly low.Words that he clearly didn’t want anyone else to hear, including the guards who still stood out in the hallway.
“I saved you from the Baron’s cruelties. Do you really think he was going to let you leave the hall without further injury? Do you think he is the kind of man to let you survive the week after you so blatantly thwarted his authority? In his own home in front of the men he is desperate to prove himself to, nonetheless. I think not. So yes, I do believe that I have saved you, regardless of how you feel about the matter. And a little gratitude would not be amiss.”
She could hardly believe the words she was hearing. Not only did Lord Blackwood think that she needed rescuing, but he believed himself to be the hero in all of this. His claims incensed her. Her feet moved before she knew what she was doing. And from the look of surprise that covered the Englishman’s face, he hadn’t anticipated the move either.
Her hand snaked through the bars and reached for the collar of his tailored navy jacket, slamming him against the biting steel of her cell door. With her free hand, she slipped his dagger out from its sheath on his belt and pressed the edge into his throat.
A satisfying drip of red emerged and ran down his neck. A single droplet of blood fell onto his white cravat, staining the otherwise flawless, ridiculous garment. In the span of a single heartbeat, she had him completely at her whim.
“Give me one reason, one good reason,” she ordered through gritted teeth, “why I should nae kill ye where ye stand?”
An inch, maybe two, separated them and suddenly, she felt as though she was the one being held at knifepoint. His eyes bore into her, their shade of amber one she had never seen before. They reminded her of a wolf, biding its time to strike.
“Because,” he drolled, his voice even and unaffected by the weapon she pressed into his skin, “I am your only chance of getting out of here alive. If you kill me now, Dudley will mostassuredly kill you tomorrow. And that is only if he is feeling merciful and does not wish to torture you for information first. You cannot kill me. You need me.”
Stunned by the veracity of his claims, Sorcha let her guard down for a moment, relaxing her grip on the hilt of the dagger. In that singular moment of hesitation, Lord Blackwood pounced. His large, calloused hand encompassed hers, pushing the blade away from the thin layer of skin covering his neck before he forced her wrist down at a painful angle.
She yelped and let the dagger go. Seamlessly, Lord Blackwood caught it and slid it back into its place on his hip with a satisfying click. His grip on her hand never faltered, his eyes never wavered. He didn’t even bother wiping the few drops of blood from his neck.
“Sleep well, Sorcha,” he all but crooned, releasing his grasp on her hand one finger at a time.
She hated the way her body reacted to hearing her name on his lips. She hated his smug smile of victory. Most of all, she hated that he was right—she needed him.
“Lord Blackwood,” she called out when he was nearly to the door of the dungeon.
He stopped his confident stride, pausing for a moment before he cast an indulgent look over his shoulder.
“If ye really wanted to do me a favor, ye should have driven that dagger through Dudley’s heart. Dinnae fash yerself,” she told him with an air of ease she couldn’t possibly feel. “There is still time for ye to do so.”
It was a dangerous game, she knew, to speak of such treachery to a man who had pledged his loyalty to her life. But to her surprise, Lord Blackwood showed no spark of anger at her brazen suggestion. Instead, the corner of his mouth pulled up, revealing stark white teeth that gleamed in the firelight. Beforeshe could decide if it was a smile or a smirk, the man stalked out of the dungeons, leaving her alone once again.
“Back to your posts,”Oliver demanded with an edge. “And do not let me catch you slipping again, or I shall be forced to tell your master.”
The guards rushed back to the door of the dungeon without so much as looking him in the eye. But Oliver was too caught up in his own thoughts to notice their scurrying.
He had taken all but three steps out of the dungeon and could go no further, his mind completely consumed by the enigmatic woman he had just gone toe to toe with. His hand reached up to his neck where a scant few beads of blood had dried on his skin and brushed them away, too distracted by everything that had just happened to truly be upset about it.
It had been ages, perhaps since he was a young man still in training, that someone had been able to take him by surprise so completely. One of the benefits of being taught to always assume the worst of people meant that he was always ready for an attack of any kind. But Sorcha had been a flame burning against a midnight sky, and he was a moth, helpless to his nature.
Never before had he seen a woman so alive, burning with a passion for life he envied. It had been evident from the very first moment Oliver had laid eyes on her. Watching those blasted guards drag her in as if she were little more than a prize catch had infuriated him more than he thought possible. And when the Baron had resorted to violence against her, it had taken every ounce of willpower he had not to jump from his seat and throttle the man. Sorcha’s suggestion that he kill the Baron wasso like his own desires that she elicited a smile from him, a feat he didn’t think her up to.
He could only credit his mother’s lessons in strategy for his ability to sniff out a solution as quickly as he did. The hours they had spent bent over the chessboard as she had taught him worthy risks and losses had given him the confidence he needed to make such a claim on Sorcha’s life. It didn’t take a mastermind to see that the Baron did not like his authority questioned, much less thwarted. But Oliver also knew how much the Baron would need Oliver’s support for his plans to attack the Scottish clans. At the time, it seemed like a worthy trade.
The last thing he had expected was for the girl to attack him over his noble sacrifice. But she wasn’t a girl. She was a woman in every sense of the word, and from the fury that poured out of her mouth, a woman who knew her worth well. He simply couldn’t stomach someone like that, a woman so beautiful and free to be caught in Dudley’s web, where the man would have leeway to abuse her as he saw fit. Even now, the thought had Oliver’s fists clenching at his sides.
Stalking to the shadowed corner of the hall, Oliver propped his shoulder against the cool stone, letting it soothe his fevered thoughts.
Have you allowed yourself to become undone by a woman simply because she is beautiful?
There was no stopping the accusatory thought from entering his head. Just as there was no denying that Sorcha was beautiful. Perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Even with her hair matted with mud and bruises blooming on her high cheekbones, there was no disguising it. Every man had noticed the golden red gleam of her hair in the firelight, like calling to like. Up close, she was even more astounding. Her eyes had been a rich brown with depths he longed to explore.
